Plus One
by the ramblin rose
Summary: J/C. Post endgame/AUish. Chakotay never had a "plus one," before, that he wanted for life. He was going to the Spring Ball alone, but he hoped that he could finally tell her what he felt.


**AN: Let me begin by saying that this is just something I wanted to do.**

**It's a little "feely" one shot. **

**I own nothing from Voyager. If I did, J/C would have been canon a long, long time ago. **

**I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think! **

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The Starfleet Spring Ball took place every single April.

The invitation always arrived the same way—in a white envelope with gold lettering. The designs on the letter inside were always tinted. Chakotay's was red—or pink, really—to denote that he was command.

He'd rarely ever gone to any of the balls.

He could dance as well as anyone could, so it had never been his fear of dancing that had kept him away. For many years, what had kept him away was discontent with Starfleet itself. He couldn't say, now, that he was entirely happy with everything that Starfleet did, but he could say that he'd reached a point of being at peace with the way things went.

The other thing that kept Chakotay, many times, from wanting to go to the Starfleet Balls, of any sort, was the card tucked in with his invitation. It always seemed to mock him— "plus one."

The problem, of course, was that Chakotay had never found a plus one in his entire life. There had been women, of course. His bed had never been cold when he'd wanted it casually warmed. But there'd never been any woman that he really wanted to see there night after night. There had never been a woman that felt right with her arm looped through his. There had never been a woman that he wanted to dance with the whole night—and still wanted to take her home.

Inviting women to the Starfleet Balls always gave them the wrong idea. Chakotay meant only to have someone that he could eat dinner with and dance with. He meant only to have someone to take the little plus one card and drop it at the door. He meant only to have friendship and company—and they always thought it was more.

It wasn't that Chakotay didn't believe in long-term relationships, or that he was afraid of serious commitment. It was actually quite the opposite. Chakotay longed for that. He longed for true, dedicated love and affection. He longed for a family and a taste of forever.

He hadn't found a forever that he wanted—at least not one that wanted him back.

He'd played at commitment with Seska. At the time that he'd accepted her affections, he'd been in a dark place in his life. He'd wanted, desperately, what she said she had to offer him. He'd believed her, and she'd betrayed him in every way possible.

He'd played at a dream with Seven, too. She was beautiful. She was perfect, really. The Borg had made her that way. Too perfect, perhaps.

Their relationship had hardly lasted an hour after landing. He'd tried to take her to the banquet to welcome Voyager back to Earth. She'd admitted, then, that she didn't want to go with him, and he'd realized that he never missed having her on his arm.

He'd realized that he'd never wanted her on his arm in the first place. The whole reason he'd ever tried to make her find a place there was because his arms felt empty. They ached with their emptiness, and his chest ached with the thought that they'd never be full.

But Seven couldn't fill the void left by someone else's absence, and it had never been fair of Chakotay to expect that from her.

The emptiness had only become more profound since Voyager's landing on terra firma.

The emptiness and the loneliness were what had prompted Chakotay to dress in the white suit—the nicest thing he had for a spring formal where he was expected to wear civilian attire—and to leave his home.

He told himself, as he tipped the driver that brought him, shook hands at the door, and accepted the good natured teasing about the fact that he had no plus one, but was sure to find one inside that was suiting to his tastes, that he was going to the ball because he hoped to relieve that aching hollow feeling in his gut.

And it wasn't entirely an untruth.

At the ball, Chakotay drank one flute of champagne while standing near the table, and quickly replaced it with another. He seldom drank, and he never drank in large quantities, but he'd been drinking more since Voyager landed than he'd ever drank before the mission that took him to the Delta Quadrant. It was a bad habit, and one he hoped to break soon. The drinking never helped, anyway. He always thought it would and, perhaps, for a second it did, but it never took long before his memories turned to her. When they turned to her, he usually ended up drinking more than he meant to—like the drink filling his belly could fill the spot where something else was missing inside him. He woke up, alone as always, and feeling emptier than before.

The champagne, tonight, was just something to build his courage.

He avoided mingling—the whole purpose of coming to the ball—as he worked his way around the crowded space. Everything glittered and shone under the lights. The light reflected off of sparkles and gems as much of Starfleet gathered together, dressed in their best, to rub elbows and enjoy a bit of civilian time together. It would have been beautiful, and Chakotay might have seen at least a dozen old friends to share a joke with, if he'd been able to do anything but search for her.

He scanned the room. His eyes never settled even longer than a half a second on anyone. He kept moving. He'd hadn't felt like he'd been on a mission this intense since they'd landed—a year earlier—and his shore leave had started, extended because of the time they'd spent in the Delta Quadrant.

His heart stopped, abruptly, in his chest when he saw her. Then, as soon as it recognized her proximity, it began to thunder wildly in his chest.

She was beautiful. She was, perhaps, even more beautiful than she'd been when he'd last seen her—nearly a year earlier. He'd wanted to call a thousand times. He'd wanted to visit. He'd wanted to surprise her and show up on her doorstep, but he knew that once he started talking, he wouldn't be able to stop.

Without Starfleet between them like a terrible babysitter that forced them to stay on opposite ends of the sofa, Chakotay wasn't sure he could keep himself from being honest about his feelings or the place she occupied in his dreams. Admittedly, he'd come there that night to tell her—to confess to her. She would either turn him away or tell him she felt the same, but at least he would know.

Her dress was navy blue, and it fit her perfectly. She'd filled out a little, here and there, since they'd landed. Chakotay smiled to himself. She'd come back to the land of her mother's brownies and beloved treats. She'd come back to rich flavored creams for her coffee. She was no longer living on replicated food and avoiding meals to spend every waking minute draining herself dry for the sake of everyone else.

She was living again, and it looked good on her—and Chakotay ached to hold her and feel how her slightly fuller figure would feel in his arms.

She was growing her hair out, too. The short bob had always been becoming on her, but he'd loved her long hair, too. He would have loved her, though, if she'd shaved her head entirely clean. Whatever made her happy, made him happy. Now, it appeared her hair was at that stage she would have called "difficult," but she wasn't required to be pulling it back to keep it above her collar. Not just yet. Like him, she'd still have six months of freedom before they began discussing her next position.

Chakotay started toward her.

It was now or never. And Starfleet couldn't stand in their way. Not now. Not tonight.

He stopped short when he saw the man appear from somewhere in the crowd. He smiled at Kathryn. She smiled at him. She went to him with open arms and he affectionately kissed her cheek before nuzzling her ear and pulling her close to him. The music was just starting, and they were swept into a dance, right where they stood, that was little more than rocking in place—but little more that was needed when holding the person you were with was the greatest experience you could imagine.

Chakotay weaved his way out of the crowd and back to the drink table. He left his empty champagne flute and excused himself to the bathroom, already sure that he'd be back to drain at least another flute or two before he called it a night—before he returned home, all the while wondering why he'd come in the first place.

He should have known that she'd find Mark again. He should have known that a woman like Kathryn Janeway never had to be lonely.

The night wore on slowly. Some dances, Chakotay tracked Kathryn across the floor—always keeping his distance—to see her rocking in place with Mark or choosing to sit out a dance to talk to him and laugh, leaning against the railing of the balcony that extended just past the doors they left open to let the fresh spring air of San Francisco drift into the ballroom. Most dances, however, Chakotay sat them out in the corner or kept his distance at the other end of the building, on different balconies, refusing requested dances and wallowing in his self-pity.

They announced the final dance and left time for everyone to find their partner. They lowered the lights and kept just enough to keep the room sparkling like the ceiling was lit with a thousand stars—the kind of sight that many of them had seen if they'd ever made their home among the actual stars.

It was beautiful, but everything was dulled for Chakotay.

His chest felt heavy enough to impede his ability to make his way across the room. He was practically dragging his body—the pain radiating through him—but he made his way across the room. He did his best to gather himself up. He did his best to hide the ache that he'd been through and the burning desire that only grew as he neared her.

His heart beat wildly enough to convince him that he might die, and he found he was incapable of more than shallow breaths as he approached her where she stood, just outside the balcony doors. Mark was nowhere to be seen at the moment, and she was gazing out over the balcony's edge at the water below. Chakotay reached a hand out and it rested on her shoulder—soft and warm.

She turned, and he swallowed against the ache in his throat.

"Kathryn," he said.

She smiled.

"Chakotay," she said, practically breathing out his name.

She turned to embrace him like she had a hundred times before. He wrapped his arms around her. He felt the evidence of a few enjoyed meals and some relaxation. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the aroma of her—something so unique to her.

She pulled away to look at him—to look him up and down.

"You look beautiful," he said.

She smiled.

"And you look handsome," she said. Her smile faded. "But—is there something wrong?"

Chakotay couldn't tell her what he wanted to tell her, but he couldn't bear to let her go just yet either.

"I saved my last dance for you," Chakotay said, not bothering to mention that he hadn't danced a single dance of the evening. "If you—have it to spare?"

Kathryn smiled.

"I'd been hoping you'd show up all evening," she said.

She followed him back inside and over to the part of the floor that had been cleared for dancing. People were waiting for the music to start, but by the time they'd found a place, the instruments were already picking up. Kathryn sunk into Chakotay's arms like they'd danced a thousand times before. She fit him perfectly—like she was meant to be there.

His heart knew that she had always been meant to be there, and he wasn't sure that he'd ever feel complete with anyone else in his arms.

For the moment, though, he tried not to focus on that. He tried to enjoy the dance—the first and the last—where Kathryn Janeway was as close to being his "plus one" as she would ever come. When he left, he knew he would have to let her go. He would have to set her free to enjoy her life. But, for now, they could have this dance.

Chakotay hoped for the longest, slowest dance known to man. He hoped for some anomaly that would make the dance go on forever. He wished that Kathryn could stay just that way, with her head against his chest and his hand resting on the small of her back, forever.

But the dance didn't last forever, and eventually the music died down. Kathryn pulled away from him and stared at him like she always did—like she expected something from him that he didn't know how to give her.

"I guess Mark is waiting for you," Chakotay said.

Kathryn furrowed her brow.

"What?"

"Mark," Chakotay said. "I guess—he's waiting for you."

Kathryn laughed to herself.

"Mark left half an hour ago," Kathryn said. "He has to work tomorrow. He was only keeping me company for a little while. I told him to go. I'm a big girl. I can get home on my own."

Chakotay swallowed and nodded.

"I'm glad that—you found each other again," Chakotay said.

Kathryn smiled.

"He's an old friend," Kathryn said. "I try to make it a point not to part with those unnecessarily."

"So—you two will be getting married?" Chakotay asked.

Kathryn laughed and apologized when Chakotay raised an eyebrow at her in question.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Carla—his wife—might not like that if we did. Carla's out of town for business. Mark was just my plus one for old time's sake. And because—I didn't have anyone else to come with me tonight."

Chakotay's heart, if it had even tried to slow itself before, began the wild dance again that it had been doing previously.

"You're—alone?" Chakotay asked.

"I was hoping—to see an old friend," Kathryn offered. "Another old friend."

"What happened with that?" Chakotay asked.

Kathryn smiled.

"He showed up," Kathryn said. "For the last dance."

"That's a shame," Chakotay said.

"It really is," Kathryn said. "Especially since—I've been waiting on him all night, and I'm afraid that…he might have wasted some of the time we might have spent dancing together."

Chakotay's inside were a twisted mess, but he did his best to keep his composure. Everything he wanted to tell her, just as it always had before, got stuck in his throat. He could speak to her in teasing riddles, though, and by some grace, she seemed to always understand him.

"He was a fool," Chakotay said. "If he wasted even a moment that he could have spent with you. He should have danced every dance with you. If he had, he would have been the luckiest man here."

Kathryn smiled softly. She shook her head.

"Don't call the man I care about a fool," she chided gently. "I'm sure there are other dances to be had."

"I'm sure he hopes so," Chakotay said.

"My plus one left," Kathryn said. "And—I've had a few drinks. I could use someone to escort me home."

"I thought you could make it on your own," Chakotay challenged.

Kathryn smiled.

"I can," she assured him. "But every trip is always nicer with good company."


End file.
